


Sour Taste In My Mouth

by qweendweeb



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, M/M, now with happy ending, post season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:16:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qweendweeb/pseuds/qweendweeb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grif and Simmons don't fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grif and Simmons don’t fight. Ever. They’ve fought side by side with each other for years; slept in the same bed for almost the same amount of time. And they don’t fight.

Of course, they ‘fight.’ Bickering about the pronunciation of words and whether or not a situation can be considered ironic. But they don't fight about anything serious, probably because Grif is too laid back to shout, so he lets Simmons think he’s won. Or Simmons will realise there’s no point trying to argue and he gives up.

This time was different.

Simmons is sat on the bed staring at the wall, his back to the door. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his legs, his maroon helmet looking back at him in his hands.

The sound of the door sliding open makes him flinch. Though the footsteps sound identical to anyone else’s, Simmons knows it’s Grif.

It’s so tense in the room, Simmons can’t think, he’s waiting for Grif to say something.

“You’re a _fucking_ asshole.” He says, with so much venom. Simmons has never heard Grif this angry. He closes his eyes, focusing on breathing steadily.

Grif continues when Simmons says nothing in return. "You had no right to-”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.” The maroon soldier interrupts quietly.

“He could have died!” Grif shouts, taking steps towards the bed.

“He didn’t.” Simmons says, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself that it's true, rather than convince Grif. 

“No, he didn’t. But now one of my soldiers is in the sick bay and I don’t know when he’s gunna wake up. Thanks to you.” He spits out ‘you’ like it’s an insult.

Simmons stands up, turning around to look into the visor about where Grif’s eyes should be. “Look, _we_ were supposed to run drills today, it was _you_ who didn’t show up to training.”

“Don’t you dare blame this on me. _You_ pushed all of them too far and someone got hurt. What if it had been more than just Bitters falling off the roof? What if it had been Smith, huh? Caboose has lost enough people as it is. Or Jensen, would you still try to blame me if it had been your own, Simmons?” Grif is seething with anger by the end of his rant.

Simmons wishes he’d put his helmet back on, now that he feels close to tears. “I’m. I’m so fucking sorry, Grif.” He says, giving a pleading look to his boyfriend.

The orange soldier shakes his head slowly. “'Sorry' doesn’t cut it. Now I’ve gotta go tell Mathews what’s happened.”

Without another word, Grif leaves and doesn’t look back. Simmons isn't sure how long he stands there until, finally, he strips out of the rest of his armor and slides into bed.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s been a week.” Tucker says to Grif, sitting down opposite him in the lounge. He sets down a his tray from dinner, not greeting Grif any further.

Grif looks up from the papers he’d been working on, he looks back down without replying.

“Make up with him already.” Tucker continues.

“Hullo to you to.” Grif says, rolling his eyes.

Tucker sighs, “Look-”

“No, _you_ look. You don’t get it because you don't like Palomo. I happen to actually give a shit about my lieutenant, so shove off, Tucker.”

“Hey, no need to get pissy at me. I’m just here because I haven’t seen Simmons out of his room in the last 48 hours. Bitters has been awake for three days and Grey says he’s totally fine. Go and make up with Simmons.” Tucker slides the tray of untouched food across the table. “Take this to him.” He gets up and leaves.

Grif watches as his friend leaves the room, his gaze then flickers to the three soldiers staring at him from their table by the door. They each immediately stare off into different directions.

Grif sets down his pen slowly and cracks his knuckles, staring at the tray in front of him. He could either stay angry, leaving the tray at the table and going back to his room, take the tray with him to his room and eat it, or,  Grif could make up with Simmons.

The thought of going back to his own room makes Grif grimace. He’d never used it prior to the fight, they’d decided that Simmons bed was more comfy so they slept in his room. The walls in Grif’s room are bare and dull, a stark contrast to Simmons' room, covered in photos. 

The silver tray is warm in Grif’s hand as he walks down the long hallways of the New Republic base. He felt several pairs of eyes on him as he left the cafeteria. Now he is in the hallway leading to the captains’ rooms. He can see Simmons door, clicking on the keypad next to the door, it slides open and Grif takes a single step in.

“Go away, Donut.” Simmons says with his back to the door. Grif doesn’t fail to notice the shirt Simmons is wearing belongs to him.

Grif sets down the tray on their desk. Slowly, Simmons gets off the bed and turns around. Suddenly, Grif feels the wave of deja vu from just less than a week ago. Except this time, Grif isn’t mad, he’s just tired. And their bed looks so much more comfortable than the one in Grif’s original room could ever be.

It’s only now that Grif realizes how tired he is.

Not sure exactly what to say, Grif goes with, “Heard you might be hungry.” Simmons eyes look down at the tray, then back to Grif.

“Thanks.” Simmons' cheeks are red, his eyes puffy. It makes Grif’s guts twist uncomfortably.

Grif’s glad that he’s in his civies. It wouldn’t be fair. Grif doesn’t know if he could do this in full armor, he’d feel too detached from the situation; he’s sure that’s why he was able to be so cruel before.

“I miss you.” Grif says simply.

He casts aside the speeches in his head he’d created on the walk from the mess hall to Simmons room, he forgets all the reasons to still be angry. In the span of one deep breath, Simmons walks around the bed, determinedly towards his orange soldier. Simmons’ arms are around Grif’s neck in another second, Grif hugs back and they don’t move for Grif isn’t sure how long. He breathes in deeply and feels at home for the first time in a week.

Grif doesn’t apologize; Simmons doesn’t either. He’s not sure, but Grif feels like just holding Simmons conveys the message more than saying the words ever could.

Instead, Grif tells Simmons to eat. Simmons agrees.

Grif leaves as the maroon soldier eats, explaining that he just needs to pick up a few things from his room, he’ll be back. As the door slides shut, Grif’s attention is called by Tucker clearing his throat.

“Well?”

“I’m workin’ on it.” He replies, not looking at Tucker as he walks the short distance to his bedroom door.

“Good.” Tucker says.

 ****  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's the ending to this tiny little fic i wrote forever ago. ive been taking a bit of a break from writing but i'm hopping to starting posting more often again:)  
> as always thanks for reading!


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